The Guest
by CynicalModerate
Summary: There isn't another choice. He wouldn't listen, so they have to make him listen. It's why Dean spared The Sadist's life. It's why he's here now - to make him listen.


**A/N: I wrote this tonight after a bit of Bicardi and listening to country music. I should be doing other stuff, but it's going to take me a couple of days to do anyway so I figured I would abuse the creative juices while they flowed. This is kinda-sorta a part of my "Effects and Consequences of a New God" drabblishes/shorts, but I made it separate because...well, it was too long and I could. HAH!  
>...I need to go to bed. <strong>

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><p>It was raining when he showed up on the front step of Bobby Singer's house, decked in long black trench coat and shielded from the onslaught of unforgiving water by a large umbrella. He knocked once, like he told them he would, and waited silently as thick rivulets of rain traveled off the edges of the umbrella and spattered onto the steps, dotting the tips of his wingtip shoes with glistening beads. His right hand flexed on the handle of the doctor's bag he carried, taking a small amount of pleasure from the worn supple leather that was nestled against his bare palm.<p>

His spider-black eyes didn't even shift when the door opened and he was greeted by the hard face of Dean Winchester. The man fixed his unwavering gaze onto the young – young by his standards, though by looking at him you could never tell – man, raking across the sunkissed face and blond hair before it dipped slightly in a polite bow.

"Mr. Winchester," he said, his voice soft and light with a touch of effeminacy to. It was just a touch, not enough to neither mock nor detract from the masculinity of the man, but enough to notice.

Dean said nothing but rather stepped aside to allow the man passage into the house. He stepped in with a smile upon his soft, angular face, closing the umbrella as he did and setting it in a corner just off to the side of the door, eyes taking in the room with unnatural intensity. His smile raised his cheeks so that the corners of his eyes crinkled; revealing an age that went beyond appearance and reminding Dean that even though the man looked no more than his early twenties he was far older. In fact, it was only his eyes and his hands that broke the illusion of youth, hands that were too mature and lined with veins that were a shocking blue beneath a pale, almost translucent skin.

When he turned suddenly to face Dean, the hunter started as he was shaken from his thoughts. He attempted to cover it but knew the act was futile – the man had already seen it and the wicked glint in his eyes show the amusement he took in it.

"Do you have tea?" he asked in his light tone, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a magnificently tailored white shirt and grey waist coat, a deep scarlet tie jutting out noticeably. "Or perhaps coffee? It is a rather cool day, I'd like something to warm my insides before we begin."

"We?" asked Dean gruffly, his throat tightening as he recalled just why the man was here in the first place.

The man ran an old hand through his short raven hair, shrugging. "Or I," he said with a shrug, then gave Dean a wicked smile. "But you could join in, if you wish. I understand you have quite an efficient hand with a-"

"Kitchen," snapped Dean, pushing past the man and stalking ahead. He didn't want to hear what the guy knew, didn't want to be reminded of why this guy was here. He would have to do that for the next several hours – days, maybe – and for the moment he just wanted a few more minutes to lie to himself.

The man followed without a word, walking into the kitchen where Bobby and Sam sat at the kitchen table, grimfaced and unwelcoming. The man paid no mind to their impoliteness but rather nodded genially and walked up to the table with them, setting his bag on the table and draping his coat over the back of a chair.

"Sam," he said, "wonderful to see you again – and without the presence of that nasty knife of yours makes it even more so."

Sam said nothing but just looked toward Dean darkly, who just turned and grabbed a mug from the rack by the sink and poured some coffee. The spider-black eyes drifted to Bobby and the man extended a hand.

"Hello there," he said, the same eye-crinkling smile from earlier offered. "You must be Mr. Singer. I am-"

"I know who you are," the old man interrupted, his face wrinkled in disgust.

When the man didn't retract the hand, Bobby looked at it for a moment for before grabbing it squeezing it harshly and shook, releasing it quickly and dropping the hand under the table to wipe it on his jeans.

The man with the spider-eyes pulled out the chair and sat down as Dean approached with the mug of coffee, accepting it with nod of silent thanks and sipping it pleasantly. Dean took a seat across from him and the hunters sat in silence, their guest staring off into nothing as he drank his coffee under their watchful gazes. They did not like the fact he was so unbothered by their presence, being what he was and with his encounter with the Winchesters so recent – they wanted him to be afraid or cocky, something that indicated he was just as unnerved by the situation as they were. But instead the man acted as if he was having a get-together with old friends, relaxed and casual with them as he waited for the invitation to do what he was here to do.

"Why," he asked suddenly and slowly, never taking his gaze from the nothing he stared into, "are you doing this? Why did you bring me here to carry out this…" He blinked for a moment, then wrinkled his brow.

"What should we call it?" he asked, looking over at Dean. "_Task? _Is that appropriate?"

Dean wouldn't look into the black eyes, instead turning his head to face Sam. But his brother would not return his gaze. He needed Sam to, though; needed to know Sam was there for him and understood why he'd pushed for this.

There wasn't another choice.

He knew that, they both did – no matter how much they wanted to believe there was another option.

"You know what he's done," said Dean quietly and hoping the quaver in his voice wouldn't be detected by the evil-eyed man. He finally looked away from Sam when he realized his brother wasn't going to give in. "You've seen what's he's capable of, what all that power has done to him."

The man nodded gravely. "Oh, yes," he said softly and took a drink of his coffee, a note of awe in his voice. "Yes, indeed. Quite destructive; chaotic, capricious in his actions. So much death for a creature supposedly created of Divine Love."

A sardonic smile crept onto the face. "But that's not the real reason, is it?" he asked, fixing his black gaze on Dean. He set the mug on the table and leaned forward, resting his elbow on the edge and focusing intently on the Winchester. "The _real_ reason is quite simply…revenge."

"No," said Dean, shaking his head. "He's got to be stopped, he's got to understand and I can't get him to-"

"So giving him over to a goddamn sadist – THE Sadist - will make him understand?" barked Bobby, his voice quivering with barely checked rage.

Three pairs of eyes looked at the old man; one in shame, one in shock, and the last pair in amusement.

"I haven't been called a sadist in years," said the dark guest in his soothing voice.

"That doesn't change who you are," snarled Bobby hatefully. "Doesn't change what…"

The old hunter trailed off and said no more, refusing to look at anyone. But the man apparently found some sort of amusement in the moment and pressed forward.

"Just what am I?" he asked Bobby, tilting his head to the side slightly.

"A demon."

The spider-black eyes turned and focused on the speaker, his smile wider and more horrible than before now that he'd finally gotten the only silent member of their group to speak.

"Oh, Sam?" he said with a slight lilt in his voice. "You know that's not true – you've been dealing with demons for quite a long time now. You know that this," he gestured to himself "is my body, the one I was born in and lived in until my death and subsequent…well, return. So in the technical meaning of the word, I am not a demon."

"You're a monster," spat Sam, "a disgusting, horrible, evil thing that takes pleasure in the torture of others-"

"-and you could never be guilty of that," said the dark man sharply, the smile gone and replace with a simple look of reproach. He fixed his gaze on Dean then, eyebrow raised knowingly.

"Nor you," he whispered, "could you? Gentlemen, don't cast judgment on me when you all are just as guilty as I. The only difference between me and you is…" He held up his hands and smiled his devil's smile, "…at least I admit I like it."

The dark man set his mug on the table and scooted back his chair, rising imperiously and grabbing his bag. His spider-eyes raked across the downcast faces before him, each of them knowing the time they had been dreading had approached. For a moment he wondered if they would call it off, if one of them would have the courage to stand up and end this thing before it began. But in the end, he realized with a note of disgust they had resigned themselves to this moment.

He found himself disappointed. But only for a moment.

"Very well," he said, a stir of excitement twisting in his gut and groin. "Let's begin. It's not every day one gets to torture an angel."

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><p>When the screams started, Dean almost went in. The voice – the gravelly voice of the angel raised to such pitches of agony – ripped through him like a blade, flaying him open raw and bringing home the reality of what he'd done. But as he approached the door to the safe room, where within the man known as The Sadist was doing God knows what to Castiel, he found his feet refused to move. He wondered briefly if the sadistic bastard had cast some sort of spell to prevent him for intruding, but he knew that wasn't the case.<p>

He just wouldn't let himself enter.

Dean raked his fingers through his hair, fisting the dirty-blond locks and tugging violently before turning away from the door and letting out a shaking sigh.

"There isn't another way," he said, jamming his eyes shut and trying to shut out the screams the angel issued.

His angel.

His friend.

His brother.

Dean shook his head. No, Castiel wasn't any of those things anymore, not after what he'd done. The year spent running from and then tracking him down, the swath of death and destruction he'd ravaged across the land as the New God remade the world, trying to repair the damage he'd done. The broken bodies, mutilated flesh, ravaged landscapes, broken souls. Finally standing there once they'd found the means to contain him, capture him, and pleading with him one final time to come back to them. The apologies falling on deaf ears, the promises rebuked, the cold contempt slapped back in their faces…

Whatever that thing was in there it wasn't Castiel.

Dean sat down on the steps and covered his ears as he tried to shut out the screams for the next several hours.

Desperately trying to believe that there was no other way.


End file.
